


and we're slow to acknowledge the knots in our laces

by Majure



Series: Vera verse [5]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:49:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24061630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Majure/pseuds/Majure
Summary: they dance in an old house on the shores of Natick banks, and it's far from perfect.---“I can’t dance,” he says.“Who can anymore? It doesn’t matter; I’ll teach you.”Sighing, Danse rolls his eyes. “One song,” he relents. Vera brightens. “But you can’t complain if I step on your feet."Yeah, come on, come on." Vera reaches up, making grabby hands at Danse. He rolls his eyes but takes her hand, pulling her out of the rocking chair to her feet. She stumbles a little and laughs, tossing the empty beer bottle into the dirt at the foot of the cabin porch."I don't think you're in a fit state to teach anyone anything," Danse says.Vera steps down off the porch, shrugging. "I mean, I might step on your toes, but I don't think that'll kill you."
Relationships: Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor
Series: Vera verse [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1210188
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	and we're slow to acknowledge the knots in our laces

**Author's Note:**

> its been over a year since i wrote anything fallout and i just really wanted to go write something fluffy! so i did. this is.....pretty pointless, but it was still fun to write.

Danse finds Vera on the porch of the old cabin, sprawled in an old cobwebbed rocking chair that she’s pulled from the shadow of the eave into the sunlight. “What are you doing?” he asks.

Vera lifts her bare feet, head tilting up to look at him through a pair of ridiculous bug eyed sunglasses. “Relaxing.” 

He flicks over her. She’s not wearing any armor, and even her blue coat has been abandoned in favor of a plain cotton shirt and a pair of loose pants rolled up over her knees. Her rifle is propped against the railing of the porch, an arm’s length away. Gripped loosely in her hand is a bottle of pilsner. She swirls it around beneath her hand. She looks at home. 

“This isn’t your house,” Danse points out. Her air of nonchalance is making him nervous, but he knows there’s likely no reason to be. They’d found this old cabin two days ago, and had seen nothing more frightening than a radstag since. 

“It’s nobody’s house,” Vera says, shrugging. “We just found it. It’s a nice evening, don’t you think?” 

It is a nice evening, even by Commonwealth standards. It’s warm, but there’s a nice breeze coming off the river nearby. Natick banks can be scenic on occasion, Danse decides, but it’s still not the kind of place Danse would want to let his guard down. He looks down at Vera, noticing the three empty beer bottles on the porch, and hums. 

Reaching up, Vera pushes her sunglasses up. Her lips purse. “That was a disappointed hum.” 

“It was a hum,” Danse says. “I was only noticing your uncanny ability to unwind whenever it’s least beneficial or safe.”

“Says he who makes jokes about sleeping beneath bags of flammable gas.”

Danse grunts and leans against the porch railing, looking out across the trees and the river that winds sluggishly before them. “Fair point.” 

They sit in silence for a little while, listening to an old radio Vera had dug out of some cranny in the cabin. Danse watches the breeze stir leaves on the trees. Vera’s rocking chair squeaks on a backswing, but even that becomes pleasant background noise. It is nice, he realizes, just to sit and do nothing for a while. He can’t remember the last time he’s done this - just sit and listen. 

“Hey,” Vera says. Her leg stretches out and she plants her foot on the small of his back, pushing gently against him to make the rocking chair tilt back. Danse turns to look at her, eyeing her foot. She lets it drop to the splintery porch with a thud. “Will you dance with me?” 

“What?” 

“Dance with me,” Vera says, and she holds her hands up in some approximation of dancing with a partner. At his pinched look, she says, “It’s just a nice night! It feels like a night for dancing. One song.” 

“I can’t dance,” he says. 

“Who can anymore? It doesn’t matter; I’ll teach you.”

Sighing, Danse rolls his eyes. “One song,” he relents. Vera brightens. “But you can’t complain if I step on your feet. 

"Yeah, come on, come on." Vera reaches up, making grabby hands at Danse. He rolls his eyes but takes her hand, pulling her out of the rocking chair to her feet. She stumbles a little and laughs, tossing the empty beer bottle into the dirt at the foot of the cabin porch. 

"I don't think you're in a fit state to teach anyone anything," Danse says. 

Vera steps down off the porch, shrugging. "I mean, I might step on your toes, but I don't think that'll kill you." 

Chuckling, Danse follows Vera down off the porch. The dirt is soft, almost silken as his feet sink into it. Vera is swaying along to the music still crackling away on the radio, eyes closed. "Come on," she says again, holding out a hand. He takes it, but not before his fingers rub together, feeling the calluses on the pads of his fingers. Vera doesn’t seem to mind, and her hand slots into his with practised ease. She tilts backwards on her heels, falling backwards as she tugs him a few feet further from the porch. Danse is beginning to think she’s a little more drunk than she’d let on, but he smiles and gives ground. 

Spinning, she twirls under his raised hand and reaches out for his waist, putting on hand on his ribs. “Hold on,” he says. “I was under the impression the male partner was supposed to lead.” 

“You can’t even dance,” she protests. Her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt and Danse nearly shies away from the ticklish brush against his ribs. “I’m leading.” She tugs on his other hand and he obligingly places it on her shoulder. She’s several inches shorter than him. As if realizing it, Vera says again, “I can lead.” 

“I’m not arguing,” Danse says placidly. 

On the porch, the radio hums. The signal is spotty here on Natick, but it comes through most of the time. Travis is finishing up a radio break, and the sound gutters for a moment before a new song cuts through. The first few bars have been skipped, but Danse recognizes it. One of those old Ink Spots songs, the rain one. 

“Oh,” Vera says, pulling him fluidly to the side. “This is a good song.” 

Their feet shuffle in the powdery dirt, uncoordinated, and Danse has to look down in order to miss stepping on Vera’s feet. She’s tipsy, on the verge of drunk, but even she has more grace than he does. 

“Y’know,” she says after a moment. “For a guy named Danse, you’ve sure got two left feet.”

“Forgive my ignorance,” he says dryly. “They didn’t teach me the waltz in boot camp.” 

“Too bad,” Vera says. “There go my dreams of having a Brotherhood military ball, and seeing all you hardasses gussied up in your Sunday best.” She snickers and together they stumble to the side. “Imagine Maxson in a tux. Awful.” 

Danse’s lips thin. “You could at least pretend to have a little respect,” he points out. 

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize we were upholding military standards of professionalism.” Vera tosses her head and her sunglasses tumble off her forehead to land in the dirt at their feet. The sunlight catches her eyes as they turn and spin. It lights her eyes in patches of gold as her eyes crinkle when she smiles. “We’re standing in the dirt spinning in circles. I figured it was okay to tell jokes.” 

Danse snorts. They finally come to rest, hands only loosely clasped together. Vera’s thumb rubs against his wrist and they slip apart as the song ends. “That may be so.”

Deftly, Vera bends and plucks her sunglasses from the ground, wiping dust off the lenses. She slides them back up her nose and turns to stagger back up the porch. Danse remains standing in the dust, watching her. When that becomes too much, he looks out across the river, still gold and mirror bright from the light of the setting sun. 

“Hey,” Vera says. He looks back at her, where she’s sitting on the old rocking chair with her legs pulled up into the seat. “You aren’t hopeless. You just need practice.” 

“Maybe a better teacher,” he says dryly. Vera laughs. He finally finds the power in himself to walk back up the porch and he sits on the top step. “One who isn’t drunk.” 

Vera leans over the arm of the chair, chin propped on her elbow. He can’t see her eyes behind the lenses of the sunglasses, but she’s smiling. “Oh, but that’s hardly any fun,” she says. She reaches out one finger and pokes him in the temple. He shifts away from her touch, huffing a soft laugh. “Maybe you need to be drunk. Loosen up a little.” 

Shrugging, Danse rests his arms across his knees. “We’ll see,” he says. “For next time.” 

Vera hums, satisfied. “For next time.”

**Author's Note:**

> come visit me on tumblr at Fanthings


End file.
